there's a difference in me now.
the dreams have all but stopped.
although I miss these cinematic treks,
Himalayan hikes among snowbound
plundered poems, nighttime now
sleeps alone,
with no pictures, stories
nor blundered roaming
to entertain or join
my resting body
in the halting dark.
the days have changed too.
it's as if the dreams
have been deposited
inside thin beams of light
under the oleander
and liquid amber leaves
turned orange and gold
amidst sandwiches,
returned phone calls
and filling right to the top
with Arco gas down the street
once or twice a week
(I'm glad it's gotten cheap).
there's a way down now
since I've been awake
that feels like up
more of the time
no matter
what route I take.
I'm happy about that.
the future ahead feels so too,
it's shimmering
like a lake.
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